


The American Child

by jossyrose



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Childhood Mischief, Fluff, Series of Vaguely Connected One Shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24067348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jossyrose/pseuds/jossyrose
Summary: England is a pirate, a gentleman, and a settler. But he is also America's older brother.America is a new nation with a penchant for mischief and amazing ability to give his brother a headache.
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Lullaby For A Stormy Night

**Author's Note:**

> Revamped story from Fanfiction.net

A haze of rain blurred the dreary night outside. If the child, sitting upright in his bed near the window, had dared to peer outside, he would have seen nothing but the wet splatters against the glass. Instead, the little boy huddled into the cocoon of his blanket, blue eyes wide and terrified. He tensely awaited the next great flash of lightning, but it wasn’t the light that bothered him. It was the reverberant, clattering noise that always followed…  
There it was; a blinding light settled over the boy’s bedroom, illuminating the creeping shadows at the corners, and a roar of thunder split his ears.  
Without thought, the boy hurtled himself off of his bed, shrieking, “England!” at the top of his high, panicked voice.  
His white nightshirt, still too large for him, trailed along the floor, tangling into his feet and causing his little legs to stumble several times, but he didn’t care. He needed to be with his brother as soon as possible. England would make everything okay; he always did; he would protect him from the scary noises and the shadows in his room.

England wasn’t always here. He couldn’t be, no matter how much he would have liked to be. But he was staying with his little brother for a few days, and he would never the tell the child it was technically for business purposes. Currently, he was sleeping on the soft, white linens of the bed in the spare bedroom he always stayed in when he was around. He was roused from this lovely slumber by the teary screeching of his little brother.  
The man’s instincts were sharp; there had been a lot to defend himself from in his long life as a fertile, sought after nation, and the panicked crying shook him to consciousness fast. Propelling himself out of his bed and striding the door, he swung the wooden barricade open and halted suddenly, to prevent himself from trampling the toddler over.  
England’s paternity settled slightly as he checked the child over for harm. The boy was weeping softly, trying to wiggle out of the man’s grasp so he could just hold on to the steadying presence of his brother, but the man needed to know his baby was safe. He did, however, smooth down the boy’s dirty blonde flyaway hairs as a means of comfort while he made sure he did not need to send for the doctor at midnight.  
Letting out his held breath he stared deeply into those teary, blue eyes. “Whatever is the matter, little one?” he asked softly, allowing the boy to launch himself into his arms.  
He placed a steadying hand on the child’s back as the boy sobbed out hysterical nonsense.  
“Shhh, shh, shh. I can’t understand you, little child.”  
The boy hiccupped and inhaled gulping breaths. “I-I-I….storm ‘s SCARY,” he drew out this last word, “Too loud.”  
England smiled fondly as he cradled his little brother, “The storm shan’t harm you, little America,” he soothed, “But if you would prefer, you may sleep with me tonight. Would that make you feel safer?”  
America nodded against his brother’s shoulder while his brother walked them over to the bed. The little boy nuzzled into his brother’s chest as they both fell asleep, the storm still raging outside.  
America didn’t mind so much, anymore.


	2. A Biscuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is hungry before supper, but he is told he can't have a biscuit. Obviously, there is only one thing to do about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this stupid thing from my brain about language and regional diction.

There was a slight chill to the spring air as the Sun was beginning to dip just slightly beyond the tree line. It was too early for the Sun to go to sleep, in little America’s opinion, but he also knew that pretty soon, the days would stretch longer and he could roam outside for the vast majority of it. As of now, however, it wasn’t even dinner time yet and he was already being beckoned inside by his older brother.  
On a normal day, the child might have protested, but going inside meant food and America was starving, so he eagerly ran past his brother and into the kitchen. England followed lethargically. He tried his best not to display his weariness to the child, but his muscles ached and his emotions were high strung, so all he could do was hope that the little boy didn’t notice his older brother so wrapped up in frustrating grown up business. It appeared, the child hadn’t, considering he was still grinning excitedly up at the man, bouncing on the balls of his feet, chanting about dinner.  
“Supper will still be a moment, America,” England said evenly, “Why don’t you play in your room while you wait. It will be finished before you know it.”  
America’s eyes widened dramatically and his lip jutted out in a pout. He crossed his arms and demanded, “If dinner isn’t ready, why did you call me?”  
“Because, America, it is getting dark, and little boys should be indoors by this time.”  
A glance out the window showed the child that his brother was right. Dusk had crept over the world faster than the child would have guessed, and if left to his own devices, he would have been much farther from the house than England would have liked at this hour. Still, the child wasn’t happy about this development, and he was planning on making this known to the man, but England was already walking past him to read in the sitting room.  
America would have protested, whining defiantly about how unfair his brother was, but his curiosity was peaked at the bubbling pot.  
“And take your shoes off, America,” his brother called, settling into his armchair, “You know better than to track dirt into the house.”  
The boy rolled his eyes, but did as he was told, tossing the discarded shoes to the side. He pattered over to the counter near the stove and lifted a hand to grab hold of the cool edge.  
“America.”  
Said child turned his head sharply in the direction of the voice. England stood in the doorway connecting the kitchen to the living room with a quirked eyebrow, holding the child’s shoes between his fingers. He approached.  
“I don’t want you touching the stove, America,” he handed the shoes over to the boy, who wrinkled his face at them, “And ‘take your shoes off’ does not mean leave them in the kitchen. Go put them by the door now and go off to play quietly.”  
The boy stalked off by the door and plopped his shoes next to his brother’s, neither neatly, nor gently. England was already seated back in his chair, his book held gingerly in hand.  
“Can I at least have a biscuit, England?” the boy requested with pleading eyes, “Please?” he tacked on for good measure. His brother always valued politeness.  
England did not lift his eyes from his book as he sighed, “First of all, America, it is ‘may I’ not ‘can I’. I would presume you are capable of obtaining a biscuit. Remember to speak properly.”  
The boy paused a moment, before prompting the man to continue. “And second of all?”  
“No, America,” England tossed his eyes over his book to meet those of the child, “You may not have a biscuit before supper.”  
“But I’m so hungry,” he whined loudly.  
“And you will be eating supper soon, so be patient, love.” His voice was gentler than it had been, but his answer dissatisfied America.  
Sulkily, the child nodded, and wandered back into the kitchen, watching his soon-to-be supper simmer on the wood stove. Within his range of sight, the tantalizing jar of sweets stood. Tempting him, taunting him. He could see the treats through the clear glass, just begging to be eaten, but at this point in his life, America had learned that when Britain said something, he rarely changed his mind, and he always meant it.  
That said, Britain had only said that America couldn’t (mouldn’t? No, he was fairly certain that wasn’t a word) have a “biscuit” before supper. He drifted his eyes over to the living room where his brother was still reading, turned mostly away from him, ankles crossed casually. America walked over to the counter, took hold of the edge, and hoisted himself up.

Britain would check on the stew after he finished this page. It was probably done enough for the child to enjoy, but he knew it would not burn, so a moment longer wouldn’t hurt. He was calming from the stresses of the day. The evening was pleasant and his home was quiet, serene, and peaceful…until it no longer was.  
The clattering of silverware alerted the Englishman, who rushed into the kitchen to see what the commotion was. Drawers had been displaced from the child’s climbing. A metal ladle, the source of the noise, had made a quick journey from the counter-top to the floor. Sitting atop the counter was a wide-eyed, naughty child who had quite literally been caught with his hand in the sweets jar, crumbs tumbling onto his shirt and trousers.  
“Britain!” the startled child voiced.  
The man stalked over and grabbed the boy by the waist, snatching the treat from the child’s little hands as he scolded, “America, I thought I said you could not have a biscuit before supper?”  
He set the squirming child down, sternly awaiting an explanation.  
“But Britain,” the boy protested irritably, “It isn’t a biscuit, it’s a cookie.”  
England straightened. “A ‘cookie’.”  
The boy expectantly held out his hand for his “cookie” back, as he nodded, “It’s a better name. And you never said I couldn’ have a cookie.”  
Britain sighed exasperatedly and shooed the child out of the kitchen, warning him not to set foot back in the room for the night. “Honestly, America, I do not see where you get these ideas.” It must have been from France, he decided internally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookie jars didn't become popular in the United States until the 1920s, but they have been around since like the 18th century, so I felt justified in taking that liberty.


End file.
